


If you can feel me, then I am real

by CHlMAERA



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Abandonment, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Clark is there for him so it's okay, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, I mean hey it was only a matter of time before I made Bruce sad, M/M, Nightmares, but - Freeform, hope you enjoy!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 18:03:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20344375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CHlMAERA/pseuds/CHlMAERA
Summary: Abandonment issues and nightly terrors don't make a good mix, luckily your friendly superhero boyfriend is here to help





	If you can feel me, then I am real

As if the hand of God himself had reached down to Earth to grab at his very being, Bruce Wayne is jolted awake. His heart thunders in his chest, chest heaving and skin wet and clammy, the sheets and pillow under him damp with perpetual sweat. He gasps in his wake. His breathing is hard. Ragged. Each intake of air feels like knives scratching themselves against his too dry throat. The blackette’s eyes shoot themselves open, bloodshot, pupils the size of pinpricks as his gaze darts around the room, surveying everything from the full size mirror in the corner to the framed pictures of his family on his desk. 

It’s dark, way too dark and Bruce doesn’t know if it seems that way because of his troubled mind or that the ever present Gotham clouds had managed to block the tiny bit of moonlight that usually streamed in through his bedroom window.

He feels a wetness on his eyelashes, and he realises he’s crying. 

Bruce stiffens when he feels the burly, toned arm of his fiance wrap around him tighter in Clark’s sleep induced dreams. His head whips around quickly as if the man next to him might disappear at any moment, and instead he finds the reporter peacefully muttering something to himself in his sleep, eyes shut and long lashes gracing his ever perfect skin. He looks content, much to Bruce’s opposite, hair ruffled from the first proper sleep they both had in weeks and face relaxed, on his jaw a stubble is present, and even though Bruce tells him it makes him look like a hobo during day, to himself he thinks it’s quite flattering.

The older man lets out a shaky breath and tries to lay down again, but the sight of Clark’s ringed finger pours liquid panic into his veins again. For he loved the man, he truly did, more than any other person he had loved romantically before and he knew Clark loved him back. However, he's been in this same song and dance before, Bruce knows that people leave, he’s been there, he’s experienced it, and whether lover, fiance or even family it always hurt more and more and more, the same old wounds opening and never healing despite doing his best. It aches in his chest, painful memories reminding him of a past he would love to forget, his mind races against itself, digging up the dream (or more appropriately nightmare) that he had just woken up from. 

The scenario changes each instance, and every time it has the same end result. Bruce is left alone. Sometimes he dreams about Dick, grown up and leaving to Blüdhaven, sick of his father and not wanting anything to do with him. Other times he dreams of Jason, tiny and full of hope being kidnapped away from him, he loathes those nights with his being, usually ending in him crouched in front of his toilet and vomiting as the scenes never leave him alone, fingers clawing at the cold ceramic. At times he dreams of Tim, who disillusioned with his adoptive father leaves him as well to find a better life, better people. Damian’s he doesn’t know if they’re real or not, the image of Talia and Ra’s taking him away silently in the night makes him wake up to check on his little boy in a rush every time. 

Tonight Bruce dreamt of Clark talking to him in a rush, his deep blue eyes averting themselves from Bruce’s worried gaze. Tanned and calloused hands move in a frenzy, in sync with his talking that Bruce can never recall. The silver band was pressed in his chest, out of the corner of his eye he could see bags packed. It suddenly feels all too real and Bruce has to get up to wet his face, feel  _ something.  _

The embrace of the freezing cold tap water is something he cherishes. It doesn’t shock him immediately back to his senses but it’s  _ real _ and it grounds him somewhat. The gushing sound of water running out the pipes acts as filler to his racing thoughts, it allows him even momentarily to not think, to  _ shut up. _ Sweat trickles down his neck. When Bruce looks in the mirror he’s faced with an image he’s becoming all too familiar with. His eyes shine silver in the sterile white light of the bathroom mirror, eyeballs bloodshot and the bags under his eyes prominent as he sleeps but never gets rest. His skin is paler than usual, bordering an unhealthy hue to it, as if a cast of momentary mortem is upon him, his lips are dry and cracking when he licks them. Bruce squints and scrutinizes himself, maybe he does this as a way to distract himself, maybe he is actually curious about how his body is reacting, he doesn’t really know and at this point he’s too physically and emotionally tired to care.

He hears a yawn behind him, and a smack of lips. “You got a white hair…” Clark yawns, again, and the soft sound alone makes the knot in Bruce’s chest loosen a bit. “Hrmm.” Bruce grunts, mostly out of habit, and watches calmly as Clark points it out on the side of his temple. “Riiight here” “Not so young anymore Wayne.” a huff “I never claimed to be young, Kent.” 

Clark chuckles softly and hugs him ever so slowly from behind, those same tree trunk arms slither their way around Bruce’s waist and hips. “I can’t sleep without you-” The taller man rests his head on Bruce’s shoulder, eyes boring into him from the reflection in the mirror. “-you know that.” Bruce looks away to the corner of the room. “Then how do you manage on miss-” “Why did you get up?” Clark cuts him off suddenly, and the hand around his waist tightens, pulling him closer. Bruce swallows. “I…” Clark nuzzles his neck softly and lets him continue. “...had a nightmare.” And to Bruce it feels like spitting out needles to even admit it, but he promised to Clark he’d be honest and not hide what he was feeling, so here he was.

He hears the barely audible sigh of his partner and suddenly Bruce feels childish at waking him up, even accidentally, for something so minute. He’s about to tell Smallville to forget about all of it and go to bed when he suddenly feels him take his hand and put it on the sunkissed man’s clothed chest. The steady, healthy heartbeat below his warm hand almost echoes in his ears, Clark’s chest rising and falling with his breaths. “If you can feel me then i’m real, and i’m here with you.” Clark leans forward to rest their foreheads together, eyes twinkling in the bathroom light. “I’m not going to leave you Bruce…” Their lips touch in a brief kiss, more for comfort than need. Bruce slowly hugs back and lets himself be enveloped in the sunshine and warmth that is Clark Kent. 

Bruce feels Clark gently pick him up, and decides that for tonight he will bite his tongue about how he isn’t some puppy and let him be. He feels himself be carried to bed with superhuman speed, the soft spring mattress hitting his back again as his lover crawled on top of him like he was a cat and not 200 solid pounds of Kansas muscle that could crush him like an ant. “Clark-” he hears huffing again “Go to sleep, this is comfy.” 

Bruce smiles softly at that, Clark truly brings out the best in him. 

He feels safe and loved and  _ not alone, not even close _ . “Goodnight.” Clark hugs him closer. “ ‘Night Bruce.”


End file.
